


Getting out of that Rut(te)

by BuoyBaseGalaxy



Category: Mark Rutte - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:35:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24422122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuoyBaseGalaxy/pseuds/BuoyBaseGalaxy
Summary: Loyal Dutch citizen Stefaan-Klaas Op den Brink Hendriksen has not been lucky in love. His love of the free market seems not to be reciprocated by any of his partners. Now, the lockdown has made his prospects in love even worse. Until a middle-aged politician ends up at his apartment and Stefaan-Klaas realises that he is in love with Prime Minister Mark Rutte.
Relationships: Mark Rutte x Fan
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	Getting out of that Rut(te)

Quarantine had been rough on me. As a single gay man living in a spacious apartment in the Hague I technically could in no way afford, dating was surprisingly difficult before society collapsed and even more so now. Not that I was left wanting for dates, quite the opposite, but all my matches had what I considered to be a major flaw: They didn’t believe in the free hand of the market! So many potential partners turned out to believe in filthy things like ‘a right to live’ and ‘accessibility of goods necessary for life’ that I had nearly given up on dating entirely.

  
Instead, I found some romantic relief at night. Many of my dreams were filled with sinful thoughts of men in leather business attire, choking me to death as they were slowly doing to the economy, but I unfortunately woke up every time, unchoked and fiscally potent.

Today had started no different, a dream about a business daddy domming me, and an aching desire upon waking up that was left completely unfulfilled.  
Quarantine had been going on for about two months now, and although porn initially sustained me, it was not enough. By month two, I would often fantasise about the government loosening regulations to save the economy, even if it meant some possible deaths. This worked for about a week before the idea of my nearly-guaranteed safety due to my physical and mental perfection sank in, killing the joy.

  
That was when the announcement came: ‘Dutch government recommends single people find sex buddy’. Initially I thought the idea was ridiculous, anyone who could find someone to have sex with them would surely have found someone by now. The free market was not only an economic concept after all. But then I thought about my own loneliness, and the aching desire, and I felt a deep gratitude that an allotment had been made for someone as miserable as myself. It was as if Mark Rutte had read my very thoughts.

  
The one thing that had been keeping me sane, besides my fantasies, had been the near-weekly updates by Prime Minister Rutte. His business acumen and patriotic love for our country gave me faith that those deserving would survive this pandemic. One week he announced financial support for businesses regardless of tax evasion and I knew, this was the man for me.

  
There was no way to know for sure, but his announcement of ‘sex buddies’ had conveniently aligned with my budding feelings for Rutte, nearly too conveniently. There was just something about him. Those rimless glasses that nearly melted into his indistinct face, his subtle stubble that was just asking to be gently caressed and that empty Unilever employee smile that was void of meaning and yet meant everything in the world to me.

  
That afternoon was spent finding compromising pictures of Rutte. There weren’t many, but I can’t deny that one filled my with a perverse lust. Mark Rutte shaking the hand of the Saudi prince. The scandal! The passion! The absolute betrayal of the democratic foundations of the Netherlands! I would have felt shame for prematurely ejaculating under normal circumstances, but Rutte had me in a death grip and like neoliberalism I didn’t care what my business daddy would do me.  
But our love was doomed and I knew it. Rutte may have been single, but he was a devout Christian. There was no way he would do something so sexy as betraying his political and religious convictions all at once, that would be too much power, even for him!

  
As I was contemplating this, I heard a soft whimper through the comm system that I used to open the front door. This was strange, as I wasn’t expecting any visitors whatsoever. ‘It could be that commie who left their flag behind from our first, and only, date.’ I thought to myself, but there was no way that Karl would be back after the last messages we exchanged on Grindr. It was a shame too, he had been hot and his cock was almost more attractive than a spike in the stock market, it certainly peeked in a similar way. But there was no way this whimpering was him, Karl was probably too busy maintaining his polycule.

  
I walked up to the comm system and hesitantly put my ear up to the speaker and said into the microphone ’This is Stefaan-Klaas Op den Brink Hendriksen speaking, how can I help you?’

  
The voice on the other side of the comm system stopped crying and murmured softly ‘I don’t know where I am, Geert Wilders and The Lavender Man challenged me to a debate and I think they put something into my drink, our country is great’.

  
That empty appeal to nationalism! That strange submissive aura coming from a voice certainly trained to be authoritative! A shiver ran down my spine, there was no way that my quarantine dream had come true!

  
‘Is that you Prime Minister Rutte?’ I asked, trying to suppress the urge to squeal like a twelve-year old mathlete seeing the number pi for the first time.  
‘I think so, I do not know where in our great country I am, but I know for a fact that I am Mark Rutte’ said the voice, sounding more tired by now, calling into question the sadness I thought I heard earlier.

  
‘You can rest here, Prime Minister, I can make sure no one will ever hear about this’ I wasn’t exactly sure if I actually could, but this was my chance!

  
‘Thank you very much, dear citizen, It’s good to have such great people in this beautiful country to help a poor Prime Minister out’ There was relief in his voice. It was possible that this wasn’t the first apartment he had tried to get into, and with many of the houses in the neighbourhood having been occupied by unemployed socialists, he would certainly not have had any luck with the neighbours.

  
I told Rutte to wait at the front gate to my apartment, so that I could let him in. Every step down the stairs to the gate made my stomach flutter with something like butterflies. When I got to the gate I finally saw him. He was everything I had expected and more. More suit than man, a corporate smile that could make printers shit ink and run for the hills, a tie that was definitely chosen by an algorithm or possibly a frightened printer. I couldn’t believe my eyes, seeing Rutte in the wild without his trademark white shirt, grey vest and blue coat made me dizzy with the fuzzy feelings that were swallowing my stomach and powering something far more concrete in my trousers.

  
I opened the gate, and as soon as I did, Rutte nearly collapsed onto my shoulder. He was barely keeping himself together and I was here to witness every second of it. I gently led him up the stairs and into my apartment.

  
‘I’m sorry for the mess’ I said with a half-cocked smile.

  
‘Well, in our great country, citizens have a right to live however they choose’.

  
‘Oh don’t call me ‘citizen’, my dad was a ‘citizen’, call me Stefaan-Klaas’ I said smoothly.

  
There was was a look of bewilderment in Rutte’s eyes, as if he didn’t know how to respond to calling a person by a name and not a title. My heart sank. I had betrayed him. Of course he would never call anyone by their name, only the higher-ups at Unilever had names.

  
My contemplation had allowed an awkward silence to fill the room. ‘I’m sorry, you can call me citizen, or whatever you like, Prime Minister’.

  
Rutte got comfortable on the leather couch in my living room and simply smiled at me, as if to indicate ‘don’t worry, I see all people in our wonderful country as nameless citizens, it’s a common mistake’. It didn’t take too long for Rutte to truly get comfortable and fall asleep spread over my couch like a Boss Baby who had just closed the deal of a lifetime.

  
Afraid to wake him, I covered him in a blanket and quietly watched him in adoration. While looking at Rutte’s sleeping form I was reminded of a great piece of literature I had once read by the venerable Ayn Rand and could not help but compare this titan of industry in front of me to the titular Atlas, shrug and all.

  
The afternoon would soon transition into the evening and Rutte slept the whole time. Once the sun started setting, I saw something stir underneath his blanket. It seemed small and misshapen at first, but soon it grew into something larger than the death rate under communism and twice as arousing. If Rutte was awake he would certainly have tried to hide it and make some claim as to his religious believes and how it only got like this when thinking about the Netherlands, but since he was asleep he had no excuse to give.

  
I slowly moved towards his sleeping form on the couch and cautiously moved the blanket to get a closer look.

  
Suddenly Rutte sprang up and muttered ‘Dividend taxes’.

  
My heart was racing and I was sure I had lost my only chance with the Prime Minister, but after muttering something about reducing taxation and how taxation is theft, he went back to sleep.

  
Luckily, his sudden movement hadn’t shifted the blanket too much, and I now found myself with perfect access to his fitted silken trousers. The trousers were surprisingly all buttons and no zipper, reflecting the Neo-liberal mindset of gradual reform over meaningful change perfectly. This alone nearly made my blood boil over, but then his underwear presented itself. Rutte was wearing deliciously tight boxer briefs covered in several Dutch East India Company  
logos followed by the word ‘gekoloniseerd’. Clearly, Rutte was not just a colonising entrepreneur in the streets, but also in the sheets. I for one could not wait to see what kind of ‘police actions’ he would perform on my ‘Dutch Indies’.

  
Having finally peeled off his tight underwear, his thick throbbing member revealed itself. It was glistening with pre-cum, as if it had anticipated my mouth. I opened my mouth and took most of him inside of me. He was large, and slightly crooked in a sexy and political way. I could feel the hear pulsating through his member as it pulsated. He needed this just as much as I did, this release. It didn’t take long for his hips to start making subtle thrusting motions, something I quickly responded to by doubling my pace. Something about the flavour of his cum was awakening a wildness inside of me that I had never felt before. Never in my short twenty-four years on this planet had I - Stefaan-Klaas Op den Brink Hendriksen - felt this complete. His thrusting became more powerful now as he was seemingly headed for orgasm.

  
‘beautiful country’ he said in a throaty voice.

  
‘beautiful country’ he said, slightly louder, with passion.

  
‘beautiful country’ his voice dissolving into a falsetto.

  
‘BEAUTIFUL COUNTRY’ he yelled as he his orgasm struck him. My mouth filled quickly with his virile sperm. It tasted sweet, almost like a mixture of coconut and pineapple. A special cocktail just for me, and I swallowed all of it.

  
When the seemingly endless stream of cum was over, I licked my lips and looked up to meet my Prime Minister’s eyes. At first glance he seemed in a state of shock. He clearly had little experience in this particular arena. I knew exactly what to say to calm him down.

  
‘Don’t worry Prime Minister, you won’t have to pay taxes for me’

  
Rutte smiled at me and I knew that this was the start of a great time for the two of us. I had finally found my business daddy.


End file.
